She is my baby.
She is my big girl.
She is very tenderhearted.
I’ve been meaning to take this sweetie to see Brave since it came out. A Disney princess that doesn’t need rescuing; I’m all for it. Plus, Merida has fiery red hair, which I am thinking will be in my future when Avery decides to grow more hair.
Grandma let Avery nap at her house and I took my baby to see this movie. Popcorn, lemonade, even sour patch kids.
It was a really nice time. She snuggled on my lap for nearly the entire movie because she’s not heavy enough to keep the movie seat from folding back up on her. Not a bad problem to have if you ask me.
The movie was cute. But that’s not the point of my tale.
Remember that “tenderhearted” comment?
At the end, when all the wrongs are righted again, and everything is happy, we cheered and smiled and life was good. Mother and daughter are happy and that made the end of the story all the better for my afternoon date.
And then, as we’re walking out of the theater,
my girl bursts into tears.
She’s going to throw another famous tantrum because we’re leaving somewhere.
Here come the tears,
I get down to her level, expecting a fight and ask, “What’s wrong honey? Why are you crying?”
“I just love you so much. These are happy tears, Mom.”
And I feel my heart swell so big it might burst. Worth it. Holding back my own happy tears, I scoop my baby into my arms and hug her all the way out to the car.
Comments like these will be fewer and farther between. I needed to soak in every second I could.